Memento Mori
by Morgan Alexander
Summary: Chasing a dream to capture the long lost magic of the world, traveling photographer Solas journeys to the northern Free Marches to find crumbling, overgrown ruins - not expecting to instead discover a world beyond imagination and, perhaps, the love of his life. (Modern AU)


For all the photographs he had taken of her, for all the time he had spent with her, for all the love he still had for her; he can't remember her face. Oh, he can remember her melodious laugh on spring afternoons, the impossible warmth of her calloused hands holding his on a cold winter's day, the impossible swell of joy that a simple "I love you" from her sweet lips could bring. He remembers that she was his everything. He remembers that he had always wanted to remember her, to keep her in his memories until the day he died.

But, perhaps, he doesn't deserve to remember that beloved face. Not after what he did to her. To her family. To her friends. To her entire world.

He leans forward in his chair and buries his face in his hands. He remembers all the empty promises he had made her, of all the times he had told her that he had loved her. He remembers the feel of her bare skin against his, of her strong heartbeat falling into sync with his. But what he cannot forget, even when he had forgotten nearly everything else, was what she had done when he had told her he could not – could never – be with her.

The screaming blare of the apartment buzzer rips him away from his thoughts and his head from his hands. He rises from his chair, wincing as his back tightened sharply at the movement.

_Don't tell me you've become an old man already, Lethallin._

He clenches his jaw at her laughing voice and walks quickly to the buzzer, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. He slams the button on the intercom harder than he should. "Who is it."

"… Some call me Witch of the Wilds. Asha'bellanar. An old hag who talks too much."

The photographer lets out a resigned sigh at the familiar, rasping voice before pressing the intercom again. "Flemeth. I was beginning to wonder when you would return." He buzzes her in and returns to his chair, his mind heavy of the storm that would undoubtedly come bursting through his front door.

It is a minute or two before she enters. She is not a storm of anger and indignation that he expects her to be, but enters gracefully and quietly. He would almost prefer the furious dragon to the sleeping one, but he knows there is nothing to be done about it. He does not bother to turn his weary eyes towards her, and instead waits until he hears her seat herself in a nearby chair. He does not want to look at her, not now, not after those terrible memories had come back to haunt him.

He hears her scoff, and the click of her heels in an uneven rhythm as she taps them against the coffee table. "This apartment is so spartan. I'd say it needs… a woman's touch." Her words hit a nerve and he shoots a glare at her. She merely smiles and begins to examine her carefully kept nails, which seemed more like a dragon's claws on her bony fingers. "But you're too much of a lone wolf for that to happen even when the chance of a lifetime presents itself, aren't you, old friend?"

At that, the photographer lets out a sigh and leans back in his chair, turning his eyes towards her. She is an imposing sight despite her significant age, what with her careful coiffure and severe pantsuit she wears like armor. She sits carefully, head held high, and has all the regal ferocity of a dragon. And indeed she is known as a dragon, being one of the most powerful publishers in all of Thedas. Rumors circulate of her being the driving force for both the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall's rise to power, and it is said that nothing is beyond the reach of her "magic" of the written word. Yet even so, the photographer is not fazed by her.

After all, he had known her long before she had become one of the most powerful voices in Thedas.

"I assume you came for something other than insulting my choice of décor, old friend."

"Smart man." Flemeth reaches into a satchel at her side and produces a large data drive. She sets it on the table between them and pushes it towards him. "I want to ask again why I had to go to so much trouble to get what I paid you to get for me. I want to know why-" She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, her golden eyes boring into the man before her. "—something that could easily be called your best work ended up not on my desk as it was supposed to, but in a dumpster outside my building. I did not get to where I am in this world by keeping my eyes and ears shut."

The photographer furrows his brow, struggling to picture the woman dumpster diving for a simple data drive. He takes the drive in his hands, his eyes locked on the careful script sharpied onto the corner.

_Solas Fenharel. Northern Free Marches: Ruins of the Elvhen._

He smiles bitterly, knowing he had found much more than ruins in the Free Marches, knowing just how far he had strayed from his original project.

"This… this is the last thing I would want known as my best work. If I have to spend the rest of my life atoning for that travesty, so be it." With a grunt of disdain, he tosses the drive back on the table and leans back in his chair. He opens his mouth to speak, but pauses when he sees the drive had flipped.

Upon the plastic is carved a pack of wolves, the scratches that formed them a stark white against what almost appeared to be a starry night sky. At their feet in what appeared to be fresh-fallen snow, crude elvish had been rather clumsily carved. Solas's heart aches at the words.

_Dareth shiral, ma vhenan._

_Safe journeys, my love._

He averts his gaze. "Why have you brought this back to me? Can you not see that I do not want it?"

Flemeth, for a moment, does not answer. "Because I looked through these pictures and I see a story here. And you of all people should know that stories… good stories are something of a weakness of mine. So I am here to offer you a deal."

Solas scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief. "And I would want to enter into another contract with you… why?"

"Why, because it would be the only thing keeping me from suing a dear, dear old friend of mine for the thousands of sovereigns that it took to send him on his little escapade across Thedas."

"… well, that does indeed pose a problem. If I might ask, however, what is the catch?"

At that, she lets out a hearty laugh. "A catch? There is always a catch, life's a catch!" She leans forward and taps one of her claw-like nails on the drive. "I suggest you catch it while you can."

Solas stares at the drive, at the carving that the woman he had loved had so carefully etched into it, and ponders her words. There is no story Flemeth would need that she has not already penned, even of the surviving Dalish clan he had stumbled upon. He imagines the northern Free Marches soon swarming with tourists and historians and elves alike, all hunting for the last of the Dalish. He imagines what stories Flemeth could have spun, what words she could have written that bewitched the masses to find and corrupt the pure and uncorrupted. What the Dalish had, as much as they had strayed from those they strove to restore, was beautiful and pure. What would society do to what remained? Would they soil it and corrupt it in their attempts to study, modernizing this one last remaining shred of the past? These and other such thoughts haunt and hound the elf incessantly, the fruits of their labor showing themselves in the dark bags beneath his eyes and the growing wrinkles around his face. What had he done, to open the door to the complete destruction of those who still sought to restore the elvhen?

And so the elf eyes the drive warily, not wanting to remind himself of the crushing guilt upon his shoulders. "And what is it that you are suggesting? What's done is done, the past cannot be changed. No matter how much one may wish it can be." A pause. "Why are you so invested in all this, anyway? If you've really looked at this drive, you'd have more than enough for a story on the Dalish and the Marches." He narrows his eyes. "What is this deal?"

Flemeth stands and brushes off her pantsuit. "I sponsored your travels so that I could get pictures of the scenic northern Free Marches and southern Tevinter in my columns. I found absolutely nothing useful on that drive. Well, unless you'd count countless pictures of a Dalish girl useful, but it just so happens that I am, in fact, not writing columns about lovesick elves, but about the political quagmire that is the relationship between southern Thedas and the blight upon this world that is the Imperium. I wanted pictures of what the Imperium has destroyed, not of some washed-up, middle-aged elf's attempt at romance."

Solas gives her a small smile. "What kind words you use to describe me and my work. However, I do recall a moment or two ago that this drive contained what you described as, and I quote, my 'best work'."

"Indeed I did. But it just so happens that your best work is, again, completely useless to me. I'm offering you another chance to go back up to the Free Marches and get me the pictures I need." She walks towards the door, the sound of her heels on the hardwood echoing harshly in the tiny room. "I'd much rather prefer you actually _do_ the work I've given you this time… though I've noticed in my visit that visiting your Dalish friend may be in your best interest." At her words, Solas feels his face burn. "I say this as your friend. We have both had enough sadness in our lifetimes, Fenharel. Joy… joy is a precious thing. Take care not to let it slip through your fingers so easily."

Going back to the Free Marches, facing the Dalish, is the last thing Solas wants to do. When he opens his mouth to object, Flemeth immediately interrupts him.

"Solas. Regret is something I know well. Take care not to cling to it, to hold it so close that it poisons your soul." She opens the door and begins to leave, and on her way out, stops. "I'll give you a week to think it over."

And then she is gone.


End file.
